The Dreaming Pool

A poetic ballad

Deep in the darkened woods, tucked in the embrace of granite cliffs, lies a cauldron of waters, a pooling of crystalline droplets, exhaled over the lip of the rock above.

Like a fairy’s breath, it mists the air, before condensing into dreams.

When you peer into the depths, you can see moments — past, present, and future.

You never know what the dreaming pool will show.

Some say they’ve seen visages peering back through the veil.

Some say they’ve heard a whispered tale.

These glimpses, rippling through the currents of time, do they emanate from something divine? From some ancient source?

An angel’s realm? Or a portal to another world? A land where prophecies unfurl and trickle through the ages.

I went there once, on a lonely night when my will to live had lost the fight with darkness.

I tasted rain in the air, and I hoped it would wash away my cares.

All around me, the forest dripped and breathed and sighed with the cries of the night.

Tiny skitters, fairy feet, or some small critter dancing in the light of the dappled moon, pitter-pattered behind me.

My hair threaded the breeze. And grief brought me to my knees.

Moonbeams, escaping from a rent in the clouds reached down to glaze the waters.

A longing slid through my limbs, an ache so deep, so raw, that I wanted to claw my way out of this skin to find you again.

But, I knew, you weren’t of this world anymore.

I inhaled tears. And the taste of moss, from the loamy forest floor, mingled with the salt, and tinged the back of my nose.

And I knew I didn’t care to be here anymore, alone.

The dampening breeze shifted the clouds, and a moonbeam shone down from those luminous shrouds.

It parted the waters, a gleaming stream of silvered ink.

I touched a toe to the surface, wanting to sink into those depths.

I thought I saw you then, your shadowed limbs, the turn of cheek, the tilt of chin, deep in the currents of the dreaming pool.

Wait for me…. Wait for me… My heart cried out.

In that moment, I had no doubt that I would find you again.

I slipped from my gown, unbound my hair, and stepped into the glassy mirror.

A sigh of rapture escaped my throat even as I slid into the cold and darkened waters.

A flash of light came from above and below — lightning? I did not know. But it cast a momentary glow into the silky depths.

I glided further under, reveling in the cold embrace, certain it was your arms reaching for me.

And then, I was in, looking up at the silvered skin that divided water and air.

But you weren’t there.

The rain began, a steady roar of pebbled drops scoring the surface.

I watched the air escape my lungs, like mercury beads rising towards the sun.

For now, the other side seemed bright, not night anymore, but another realm.

The dreaming pool had done it again.

And then, I saw you, reaching from above.

Come with me, my love.

My lungs burnt with sudden fire, as I wakened from the somnolence of grief.

My need for you throbbed through my veins. I kicked against the silty floor and dove towards the surface again.

I caught your hand. I felt your calloused grip. You pulled me through the chill, and I slipped back into the darkened glen.

I did not know then, which were tears, which were rain, and which were remnants of pain, sluicing off of me from the pool of dreams.

But I do know that it seemed, then and now, that I could see you again, somehow, in every drop of dew, and in every misted breath of rain.

And I can hear you too in the rustle of leaves, in the call of the autumn geese, and in the soft summer breeze.

And I am filled with peace.

For I know you are here.

I believe this is true.

I lost you in this world, and never knew, until that night at the dreaming pool, the night you parted the veils between worlds, and unfurled a new perception of reality for me,

that we are part of the One, and can never really be alone.

This is what the waters have shown me.

Just wait for me, my love. My time will come. But, for now, I know that I need to live.

I believe that to truly understand a poem, it needs to be heard. To hear the rhythm, the cadence, the emphasis, please listen to my recording of “The Dreaming Pool.”

I hope you enjoyed this mythical poem voyage into the land of dreams.

You might also like:

An exploration of yoga’s ancient roots, from the Upaniṣads to now:

A little poetic musing about the consciousness of flowers and bees:

A short story about a “Buffalo Storm”:

Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies).

Poem and photos ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.